Page 1 of Falling for Felix
Chapter 1
Felix
Ishould'vecomeatdawn.
The gravel lot outside the Maple Ridge General Store is already half full, pickup trucks and SUVs with out-of-state plates scattered between the rusty locals like confetti. Which means I've got approximately ten minutes before someone tries to make small talk about the weather or—God forbid—ask what I've been up to these past few years since I escaped town and moved farther up the mountain.
The answers are simple: nothing worth talking about, and none of your damn business. I spent too many years building furniture for people who cared more about buzzwords than beauty. These days, I work for myself, and I like itquiet.
I pull my truck into the far corner spot that's usually empty because it's too close to the dumpster, and I kill the engine. The scent of woodsmoke threading through crisp October air rolls in through my cracked windows, followed by the sweet and tart smell of fresh cider, and something else. Something that makes my chest tight with memory.
Cinnamon. Apple butter. The ghost of my grandmother's kitchen.
It’s the smell of autumn in Maple Ridge. It’s the smell ofhome.
I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and take a long breath. Outside, the maples lining Main Street are showing off. Burnt orange and deep red leaves drift down like nature's own ticker tape parade. Behind the store, the corn maze rustles in the breeze, tall stalks swaying like they're keeping time to a song only they can hear.
Damn town hasn't changed a bit.
Which is exactly why I left in the first place.
I tug my ballcap lower, hiding as much of my face as possible, and climb out. The air bites at my cheeks, carries the sound of children laughing somewhere in the distance. Festival prep. The annual Maple Ridge Fall Festival that turns our sleepy mountain town into a Norman Rockwell painting for exactly one weekend before everyone goes back to their regular lives.
I'll be gone by Sunday night, booth packed up, bank account slightly less empty. Back to my cabin in the woods where the only company I keep is my tools and the occasional deer that wanders too close to my workshop.
The bell above the general store door chimes as I push inside, and I'm immediately hit with a wall of sensory memory so strong it nearly knocks me backward. Pine-scented cleanser. Old wood floors that creak in all the same places they did when I was twelve. The metallic ding of the ancient cash register that Joy refuses to replace.
I keep my head down and make a beeline for the hardware section, hoping I can grab the wood screws I need for tomorrow's booth setup and escape before anyone I know spots me.
"Well, well," comes a voice dripping with sugar and mischief. "If it isn't the prodigal son of the mountain."
Shit.
I look up to find Joy Munson watching me from behind the counter, plump arms crossed over her usual denim apron, steel-gray braid draped over one shoulder like she's posing for a country store catalog. She's got that look in her eyes… the one that says she knows things she shouldn't and plans to use every single one of them against me.
"Morning, Joy," I say, hoping my voice sounds more neutral than I feel.
"Felix Dixon." She draws out my name like she's savoring it. "Didn't think I'd see you unless I tracked you down tomorrow at the festival. But here you are, a day early, gracing us with your presence."
"Just need some screws for my booth." I hold up the small package I’ve just grabbed from the hardware section. "Two-inch, flat head."
“I’ll add those to your business account.” She reaches beneath the counter and produces a brown paper bag, twisted at the top. "Since you're here, I made an extra cinnamon twist this morning. Your favorite. Some part of me must've known you'd come skulking around before the crowd gets thick."
The bag smells like heaven—butter and cinnamon and nutmeg, like comfort food made manifest. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I had my typical breakfast this morning: two cups of coffee, black.
"I'm not staying long enough for chit-chat," I say.
"You never do." She pushes it closer across the worn wooden counter. "But take it anyway. Lord knows you probably haven’t had a homemade treat in ages."
I grunt something that might be thanks, because she's not wrong. Living alone in the woods, if I want a sweet treat, I have to bake it myself.And that never happens.
Joy leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes twinkling with that particular brand of small-town mischief that makes grown men run for cover. "You know what they say around here this time of year, don't you?"
I groan. This town has more old wives’ tales than wives. "God help me, I probably don't want to."
She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, like she's about to reveal state secrets. "They say when the leaves fall in Maple Ridge, the mountain men fall too."
I stare at her, trying to process whether she's serious or just pulling my leg. With Joy, it's always fifty-fifty.
